


There Are Ships Sailing

by bold_seer



Category: Merchant of Venice - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works, Twelfth Night - Shakespeare
Genre: Depression, Heartbreak, M/M, Moving On, Period Typical Attitudes, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-06-22 02:50:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15572049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bold_seer/pseuds/bold_seer
Summary: Antonio feels a stab of something in his chest, right near his heart.





	There Are Ships Sailing

**Author's Note:**

> SHYLOCK  
> Antonio is a good man.
> 
> BASSANIO  
> Have you heard any imputation to the contrary?
> 
> \- _The Merchant of Venice_ , 1.3

V

These are the tales you tell at night, tales of hurt and heartache. That he was Antonio once, too. His past life, the secret burning in his chest. No secret at all, but a love he tried to bury, leave on another shore. That he knew him first as Roderigo, though he was called Sebastian. Turned into Cesario, revealed to be a sister. Shifting like the sea, swirling with love and loss.

To confess a secret; to let it go.

...

IV

Everything comes back to the bond. Every man, in Venice and beyond, wants to hear the remarkable, triumphant tale.

Antonio recounts the events without excess emotion, yet Roderigo’s face turns troubled. It disturbs him, that a man was willing to cut out the heart of another man in the cold light of day. Weigh it, study it, like a piece of meat. That the court, powerless, indifferent, would to let him. That Antonio would hand himself over, with a faint protest. That he ever agreed to such a perilous bond.

It must disturb Antonio, if he thinks back on it. Those months of uncertainty and doubt. How does a man live so close to death?

He doesn’t.

He dreams about it, blood and guts. The knife to his chest: an arrow at a saint, a spear at Christ. Unless Shylock is merciful. But he never is.

(Did hatred ever make a man kind?)

Roderigo’s eyes are dark with sorrow. “You turned him Christian.”

“To save his soul!” Not by force, Antonio wants to protest. There was a price to pay, of course. In this city, full of fools and gold, there is always a price to pay. “We struck a deal. The lawyer - or Portia - did.”

Did they? After he was delivered from his certain death, Shylock from his, he demanded a conversion. Though he recalls the moment, he can’t swear what made him require it.

“And damn him in the eyes of his own people.” Rodrigo’s words are a plea for every wronged soul.

(Who, in Venice, is a wronged soul?)

Antonio feels a stab of something in his chest, right near his heart. Not guilt, exactly. Unease, perhaps. He is not, he tells himself, sorry for that. If the man who made him suffer should suffer.

The man who made him suffer.

He isn’t.

...

III

When Antonio heads out at dawn, he leaves Roderigo sleeping in his bed. A sheet covers him to the waist, but not his upper body. Not his muscular arms.

He stays away longer than he thought, content in his own company. On the way home, he senses a figure behind him.

Brown hair, not too tall or short, a beard that is neither in nor out of fashion: the sum of which makes for a not unpleasant figure. “Signor Antonio.” The man gives him a calculating look. “You have the reputation of a respectable merchant. A generous man.” It sounds flattering enough, but there is something hostile beneath that simple meaning, as if the estimate were an affront to his person. But Antonio can’t even place the man, let alone recall any slight, on his part, against this stranger.

“Do you oppose that, signor?”

“Some say too generous. For a merchant.” His eyes are shrewd. “Men may take advantage of that, else they are taken advantage of.”

What is he implying? An image of all his friends, nay, every man in Venice, queuing to his bed for money and favours - a preposterous thought. If Antonio saw to them all, his virtue should be in question, not theirs. A common, stale, worthless thing. He is, at times, liberal in his offers of money and friendship, but never love. _I know myself not, but I know I’m not guilty of all you would accuse me of._

“You offend my friends more than you offend me,” he says levelly. Regards the man, his flushed cheeks. His rumpled appearance. Does he have a wife? Children? Do they miss him when he is out drinking? Are they happy he isn’t home? Anxious of his return? “Would it be more virtuous to surround oneself with female company?”

The man’s face turns sour. “The Jew should’ve gutted you like a fish, you filthy –”

And God help him, he wouldn’t have minded it so much.

His eyes are closed, but he can feel the blade at his throat, the tip of the knife -

“Shed his blood and yours will flow. In equal measure.”

Roderigo stands there holding a dagger, deadly calm and defiant, and willing to risk his own life. He must have moved like a cat in the night; both Antonio and his assailant are caught off guard.

The stranger backs away slowly, eyes narrowing. “An alien threatening a citizen, was it not?” But he leaves, quick steps fading away.

Overcome with sudden exhaustion, Antonio leans against the wall, letting the stones steady him.

That last sentence echoes in his ears, refusing to let go.

...

II

He is a little lightheaded, but it can’t be the sun, not with those clouds. An impulsive decision he didn’t know he had in him. The man he has so hastily invited into his own home is a stranger, and if he proves a thief and murderer, Antonio’s body will end up in the canal.

They sit down at the table. The sailor eats heartily, and why shouldn’t he? Fresh fruit and bread are scarce at sea. Antonio looks into his wine glass, seeing not waves but death, the Last Supper and Christ’s sacrifice. For mankind, unworthy that they are. Imagines the wounds that would appear, if the glass in his hand were to shatter into a thousand jagged pieces. Cut him open and drain him of every drop.

He can’t remember when he last craved food. Craved anything. Any thing. Every man he knows, but one, enjoys life better than he does. For all their vows, he wonders if any of them will care if he wastes away. There is a difference, after all. The difference between a man at death’s door and a man half living.

Still loving, though he denied it fiercely. In a sense, he gave Bassanio up before he was obliged to. _I miss your heartbeat, and Belmont is so far away._ For that is where his thoughts always return to. All roads, even by sea.

“Forgive me,” he says, if only to break the silence. It isn’t uncomfortable. Silence never is, only the thoughts it brings out. Nevertheless, he feels the need to offer some explanation. “I’m a discourteous host.”

“A careless one.” The man, Roderigo, looks him in the eye. “I could be a criminal.” He speaks as if the notion stings him.

“I’ve gambled with my life before,” Antonio mutters. One day, the consequences will be graver than heartbreak.

“I’ve risked mine own life, but never so lightly.” Rodrigo looks away, concealing a hundred untold stories of pain and longing. “And always for love.”

His words are quiet, reflective. A meditation on Love’s wounds.

...

I

On his voyage, he endured a storm. With him follow the dark clouds, advancing on the city like an army. The threat of rain does not deter him from stepping onshore, but he lingers nonetheless.

One by one, the other sailors disappear, off to find shelter in some woman’s arms. To alleviate their loneliness. To pass the time. He has coin enough for wine and women, but his tastes favour one over the other. And as he has so bitterly learnt – to his very bones, the shackles on his feet – there is one set of rules for the sea and another for land.

_You lay with a youth for his beauty, and accompanied him because of your love, but what good came of your affections? The sea did not judge you, but your love was discarded instantly ashore._

Yet Venice, where ships gather from all over the world, is as good a place for him as any. Captain, pirate, soldier, sailor – what’s one more man? And who is he to judge men who have suffered greater losses than an ill-advised infatuation?

He wanders around aimlessly, until a man catches his eye at the Rialto. Thin and pale and dressed in dark, expensive fabrics, so unlike Antonio’s own clothes, which are worn and practical, in shades of sand and wood. Not unhandsome, but with the hollowed-out look of someone who has barely slept for weeks and months. Antonio should know, more than a little hollowed out himself.

The man is staring at the water, forlorn, though he must belong here better than Antonio does. Impulsively, he asks, “And you, sir – do the stars shine darkly over you, too?” He loved a youth, this is a man, and yet, there is a certain grace to them both. Something of Sebastian’s sadness in this stranger, who startles.

“I am Antonio.” The man turns to look at him properly. “Antonio the merchant, who nearly had his heart taken out by Shylock the Jew.” He drops the hand resting on his chest, adding a little uncertainly, “Although he has henceforth become a Christian.”

Can a man keep his heart and lose it all the same? Or is it something else he loses, someone else’s heart? To look so dispirited, so _heartsick_.

He remembers the waves and a whisper - _Roderigo_.

The merchant hesitates for only a moment. “In truth, the skies grow dark for us all.”

He sees something in Antonio, perhaps. Some mirror image, some semblance of his soul.


End file.
